After several days of warm rain last week, Boston’s snow pack had diminished significantly, from towering monoliths to untidy piles of soot-caked snow. “Spring is coming! Spring is in the air!” I heard more than a few people comment. I politely assent similar sentiments, but inwardly I think “Spring? Are you insane, it’s only February! Spring is at least two windy, wintry-mixed months away!”
But for all my realism about the weather, I was still surprised (yet stoked) to wake up today to find five powdery inches clinging to the ground. Five inches is the perfect amount of snow: not enough to cause any significant transportation problems, and just enough to allow for an afternoon of free XC skiing at Middlesex Fells.
As we skiied classic-style on the perfect cover of powder (atop of a literal foot of ice), Mr. P tested out his new camera lens, which he specifically bought for taking portraits. I happen to think the new lens is magical, for it yielded the best picture he has taken of me since I turned 30 (see below). All this time, I’ve been thinking it’s me who looks old, sallow, and disgruntled, but the whole time it was the len’s fault!
Here I am, getting simultaneously ambushed by my camera-happy hubby and a cloud of snowdust falling from the trees. (For the record, the word “hubby” was employed strictly for alliterative purposes, and I’m surpressing the urge to say something snarky to detract from the word’s corniness.)
Mr. P was realllly hoping I would fall off the bridge, for that would make an infinitely better picture, but I just don’t fall this late in the season.
